


Mating Season

by stuffthatbard



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Come Inflation, Dragons, Enthusiastic Consent, Large Cock, Monsterfucker Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Witcher Stamina (The Witcher), belly bulge, sex with a dragon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:33:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27813091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stuffthatbard/pseuds/stuffthatbard
Summary: It's Geralt's third year out on the Path, and while he might think he's seen everything the Continent has to offer, he's wrong.Or, Geralt gets fucked by a dragon.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Dragon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 143





	Mating Season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GreenBird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenBird/gifts).



> Written for GreenBird, who wanted the prequel to [With an Iron Fist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27572884).

It was Geralt’s third year out on the Path, and he thought there wasn’t much that could surprise him. He’d seen it all—necrophages, draconids, wraiths. Even a rogue earth elemental, once, which had been a grueling fight, but which had paid out quite handsomely.

He was pretty well versed in more intimate matters, too—though he’d often fooled around with the other boys at Kaer Morhen, he hadn’t known what else sex had to offer until he’d finally gone out into the world. When he’d first gathered up the coin and the courage to visit a brothel, he’d been nervous but willing to learn. And did he ever—how to fuck, how to be fucked, all the different things you could do with hands and mouths and other people.

All this was to say—Geralt thought he knew what he was getting into when he took the contract. It seemed easy enough—something was living up in the caves on top of the mountain, and the villagers were scared enough to hire a witcher to take care of it. Geralt accepted the gold and hiked up there, expecting a rock troll maybe, or a wyvern at the worst.

What he found was far more interesting—a dragon. Not a wyvern, not a basilisk, not a forktail. A real, honest-to-gods golden dragon, which weren’t supposed to exist.

The dragon in question was standing protectively in front of the entrance to its cave, tail lashing and teeth bared—but it didn’t attack. Strange.

Geralt carefully lowered his hand from where he had been gripping the pommel of his sword, watching with awe as the dragon relaxed some. So it was intelligent, then. Sentient, even?

“I’m not here to hurt you,” Geralt said calmly, staring into its eyes, willing it to understand. “I was sent up here to investigate, that’s all.”

“And how am I to trust you, witcher?” spoke the golden dragon—quite intelligent, then. “I know your kind well. You hunted my brethren to extinction for a handful of coins at the order of the humans. Little better than cold-blooded killers, all of you.”

“Not all of us. Me, my brethren—we don’t kill dragons. We don’t kill any sentient creatures, as long as we aren’t forced.” With every word, he hoped the dragon would sense the truth of it—he truly didn’t want to hurt the dragon, but he would, if it was a threat to the people living below.

The dragon narrowed its eyes. “Why are you here, then?”

“As I said—I was paid to investigate the creature living on the mountain. As far as I can see, you’re doing no harm living up here. My work is done, and I’ll leave you in peace.” Geralt slowly lowered his hands as he spoke, relaxing, and the dragon did the same, straightening from its defensive crouch.

The dragon stared at him for one long, inscrutable moment—Geralt felt as if he were back under the judging gaze of the master witchers back home, small and inexperienced. Looking into the dragon’s eyes, he could tell that it had seen countless more winters than him, was wiser and more experienced than he could ever hope to be.

And then it huffed out a puff of smoke, lumbering aside to reveal its nest behind it. “I thank you, Geralt of Rivia, for your understanding and kindness. I will let you go in peace now—unless you desire to fulfill another purpose here. I would pay handsomely should you agree, but neither would I force you should you disagree.”

“What is it?” Geralt asked warily. Never had he gotten a contract from a non-human before.

“I would take you to my nest for an evening. It is mating season for my kind, and though I would normally spend it alone, I would prefer a willing partner, if you’re so inclined.”

Geralt stared. The dragon stared back with its fiery gold eyes, unflinching.

“I’ll do it,” Geralt said.

* * *

The dragon led him inside the cave to its nest, which was quite cozy, considering. It had gathered animal pelts and arranged them into a thick blanket on the cavern floor, and piled even more around the edges, forming a protected depression just large enough for the dragon to spread out in. Geralt hovered by the edge, uncertain about where to go from here.

The dragon, meanwhile, lit a fire on the other side of the cave, where the smoke wouldn’t smother them, but close enough that Geralt could feel its warmth near the nest.

“Is it custom for humans to breed fully clothed?” the dragon asked, a note of humor in its voice if Geralt wasn’t mistaken.

“No,” Geralt grunted, blushing, and began to strip, quickly and efficiently. Off came his swords, his armor, his clothes, until he stood naked and unashamed in front of the dragon. “How do you want me?” he asked stiffly.

“I want you relaxed, for one thing,” the dragon chided. “As I said, I would like a willing partner. There’s no shame in changing your mind.”

Geralt unclenched his fists and willed his shoulders to drop. “I am willing. How are we doing this?” he asked again.

“Lie down in the nest and try to relax. I’ll be back shortly,” the dragon ordered. Geralt climbed inside as the dragon disappeared into another chamber of the cave.

Lying down on his back, he felt very vulnerable, and had to fight the urge to cover himself. Never had he been so bare, so unprotected in front of a monster—but the dragon wasn’t a monster, he had to remind himself, it was intelligent and nonthreatening.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply a few times, trying to get into the meditation headspace that always did wonders for calming him down. As he did, he reached a hand down towards his cock and started stroking idly.

As he relaxed more, his cock grew harder beneath his touches, blood rushing to it, and he bit his lip, slowing down before he came. The night hadn’t even started yet—he had infamous witcher stamina, but he had the feeling he would need every bit of it to keep up with the dragon.

He opened his eyes and yanked his hand away from his cock as he heard large footsteps returning. The dragon’s head appeared over the lip of the nest, a small bottle clutched in its jaws.

The dragon dropped it gently on top of Geralt’s chest, and he realized with a blush that it was oil. “Prepare yourself,” the dragon said, pinning him in place with those huge golden eyes.

He snatched the bottle up and yanked the cork out with his teeth, pouring a liberal amount on his fingers. He thanked every god he knew of for the whore in Vizima who had taught him how to open himself up a year ago.

It meant that he knew exactly how to tease himself, how to circle a finger around his entrance, dripping wet with slick, how to gently push a fingertip in, feeling the way he clenched around himself at the first press inwards.

He pulled his fingertip out and pushed it in another inch, gasping at the stretch, though he knew it was hardly anything yet.

“Beautiful,” the dragon murmured, gaze fixated on where his finger was disappearing into himself. Geralt’s face burned hot and he snuck another finger in, mouth dropping open and eyes falling shut. At least now he didn’t have to look at the dragon looking at him with that burning gaze.

He stroked his fingers in and out, breathing heavily, feeling his hole loosen around his fingers as he relaxed more. When he deemed himself ready for another finger, he added it, cock twitching as the stretch increased—not enough to burn, but enough to have him gasping for breath with every movement.

“So good for me,” the dragon purred, and Geralt opened his eyes to see it climbing inside, head dipping close, hot breath puffing over him.

Geralt pulled his fingers free with a wet squelch, letting his hand fall. The dragon hummed and nosed closer to his hole, little puffs of air over it making him shiver.

“Well? Are we going to do this or not?” Geralt croaked.

The dragon chuckled. “I don’t think you’re ready yet,” it said modestly, and Geralt glanced down for the first time to see its cock, standing proud between its legs, _absolutely massive._ He gulped. He wanted that in him _now._ “Just a bit longer, little wolf,” it said, and dipped its head again.

Geralt shouted something wordless as he felt its tongue, hot and wet, sliding across his slicked hole. “Alright?” the dragon purred, lifting its head. Geralt nodded faintly, and it ducked back down, delving in again. Geralt brought his fist up to his mouth, biting down on it to stifle any embarrassing whimpers he might have made.

And then its tongue pushed _inwards,_ and all of his efforts to keep silent went out the window. It was so thick, and hot, like a cock but _more,_ moving and wriggling and _gods he wasn’t going to last long._

He reached a hand down again and stripped his cock madly, coming mere seconds later, shouting out his pleasure as the dragon wrung him dry.

He panted as he came down from his high, the dragon retreating and letting him catch his breath for a minute. By the time he felt settled enough to open his eyes, he was met with the sight of the dragon’s cock, now leaking and flushed, rutting into the furs of the nest. 

“In me,” he gasped, throwing his head back. “In me, now, I’m ready.”

The dragon groaned, nipping at his neck with those wicked, razor-sharp teeth, but Geralt felt no fear. He threw his head back, allowing the dragon greater access to his neck.

The dragon moved, shifting upwards, great body completely covering Geralt, warm and heavy, and then the tip of its cock entered him in one smooth thrust. All of the air left Geralt, or else he would have whimpered at the intrusion.

He rocked his hips into it, urging its cock deeper, harder, faster, but it remained maddeningly out of reach. He whined. “More, please, give me more,” he begged.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” the dragon grunted, seemingly holding back out of sheer will.

“You won’t, I’m a witcher, now _give it to me,_ ” Geralt snarled, surging upwards. The dragon let him push it to lie on its back, and he sank onto its cock with a moan. He was so full; he could practically feel the dragon in his _throat,_ its massive cock coring him open.

He panted, moving his hips in small circles until he got used to the stretch, to the fullness that was pervading his entire being. As soon as he was, he unceremoniously lifted himself up and dropped back down, eyes rolling back in his head as its cock brushed right against his prostate.

“You feel so good for me, little wolf. So hot and tight, yes,” the dragon hissed, meeting Geralt’s thrusts with its own. Geralt shivered, cock once again hard and leaking.

“You’re so _big,”_ Geralt muttered in response, increasing his speed until he was riding the dragon with everything he had, letting out little grunts with each thrust.

The dragon groaned, long and low, and then it was coming, cock spurting inside of Geralt, filling him up. Geralt threw his head back and came too, taken over the edge by the feeling of being so completely full.

He hardly even noticed as the dragon sat up, pulling him with it, limp as a ragdoll. The dragon arranged them until Geralt was on his hands and knees, though that didn’t last long, as his arms immediately gave out and he crashed face-first into the furs.

The dragon kept on, heedless of Geralt’s complete lack of energy—but Geralt didn’t ask it to stop. How could he, when it felt so good? Every movement had its cock slamming into his prostate, sensitive but not too much. He moaned. “More. Gimme more,” he slurred. “I wan’ all of it.”

“Don’t worry, little wolf. I’m nowhere near done with you. You’ll be screaming before the night is up,” the dragon promised in a low growl.

It resumed its hammering—Geralt whined and reached a hand down, intent on getting off again, but paused when his hand brushed his stomach. Was that—?

He realized that his stomach was bulging outwards, and not only from the come the dragon had pumped into him. It was the dragon’s cock, he realized, as he felt it moving underneath him.

The thought was so hot—that the dragon was so big he could feel it even through his stomach—that Geralt’s toes curled and he felt himself coming _again,_ hole clenching and fluttering around the dragon’s cock, toes curling, every muscle in his body tensing.

His vision went white.

* * *

He came back to himself gods knew how long later, lying on his back in the nest of furs, clean and sated. The dragon was curled around him, like a big, scaly furnace, the heat perfect for his sore and overtaxed muscles.

He could stand to nap a few more hours, he supposed, settling back in against the dragon’s bulk. As his eyes slipped shut once more, he felt the dragon rumble in approval beneath him. He fell asleep with a sated smile on his face.


End file.
